Oblivion
by Niko
Summary: Sequel to Remedy. While the people of the Ark lay sleeping, their lives continue on in dreams. Now the narrative lays broken, however, and the program appears to be running amok. Or is it?


Time is only linear from a singular perspective. While Sherlock's own narrative progressed from one point to the other, the intersects of other lives along the path created variables and divergences from routine and predictability. Even understanding that the geographical descriptions of his campus home and the location of his first lecture of the day were constants on a Tuesday, the people who crowded the lawn, the bits of conversation overheard, the change in his pace due to traffic concerns or weather all created variables which had the potential to make an obvious day into something more interesting. It never seemed to but there still existed that potential for something alarming and fantastic. If every person he observed-say fifty to be on the conservative side-were faced with their own fifty possible encounters to generate potential life turbulence, then there existed on any one morning an exponentially massive team of forces at work with the power to bring about change and interest into Sherlock's dull, predictable life. It was statistically improbable, in that case, that he should remain static within his own existence for much longer-he was due for something noteworthy above and beyond the simple nuances of observable adolescent behaviors. But despite every assurance and faith in such knowledge, Sherlock still would not have noticed the gravity of change his life had incurred if it had not-quite literally-bitten him.

From Sherlock's perspective, the dog was the only real surprise since he'd already been aware of his stalker for over a week by then. He'd first noticed the older man one morning before lecture but paid him no more mind than he did any other person standing around on campus. But then he saw him again at lunch, just standing aside and watching him, and still again on the sidewalk as he walked between buildings. He was used to being followed; his brother was of the habit of employing the occasional professional to spy on him now that he'd gotten himself away from the estate and its 'protective' walls. Professionals didn't stand under a tree and blatantly stare, though. Nor did they usually smile when Sherlock stared right back. Military from his stance, old enough to be his father from the looks of him, certainly of a type that Mycroft would entrust but he was just so _bad_ at it. Jumpers and jeans did not make one instantly covert and Sherlock wasn't convinced anyone in Mycroft's employ was even capable of a smile, let alone one that was quite so congenial. This one smiled like other people did when they looked at someone they once knew. Someone they liked. It was... odd... to be smiled at like that. It almost gave Sherlock the impression that the entire reason he was being so obvious was that he knew it was futile to be otherwise-an insult to Sherlock's deductive powers just in trying. He liked that. He liked to pretend it was courtesy and not ineptitude, at least. And he liked the mystery far more than he cared about the potential threat of a stalker and so did not bother to confront him. 'John Doe' was more a game than a concern and picking him out had become the highlight of even the smallest excursion.

The dog, on the other hand, was one-hundred percent new. Big, black, and dumb were the only real words that could be used to describe it from so short an introduction. Possessive certainly seemed to have played into it as well-Sherlock wasn't as well versed in animal motives as he was in those of humans but he was rather sure it wasn't exactly normal for a dog to bite a man for the crime of standing over his stick. But it was the stick that did it. The stick, unassuming and fatefully thrown along his route, was that magical variable that meant the dog's path, his owner's path, and that of the stalker should suddenly and somewhat violently collide.

Sherlock had picked his John Doe out within minutes of reaching the campus lawn, never returning the smile the stranger sent him but enjoying his mysterious presence in his own quiet way. He heard a man calling after his dog but ignored it as simple white-noise on the green and continued on his way in the normal, uninterrupted fashion. He'd hardly even recognized the growl of the beast until it had sunk its teeth into the meat of his calf, suddenly quite aware whom exactly 'Alfie' had been that the young man had been so eagerly calling to. In trying to pull away, Sherlock lost his footing and fell to his backside, other leg pulled up and poised to kick even as the frantic young man grabbed his dog by the neck scruff and collar to heave him away to some safer distance. It all happened in the span of seconds, the sudden rush of adrenalin a fairly welcome accompaniment to the previous monotony though the growing awareness of a throbbing ache in his leg was of a mounting concern as he stared at the large white teeth of his reclaimed attacker. Most everyone in the area had been witness to the sudden scuffle, a fair number of them drawing in to get a better look and assess the danger to themselves as the dog barked, and sniffed, and finally sat. Sherlock hadn't even the time to assess himself before hidden under another man's shadow as he knelt and turned Sherlock's face towards him with a world of worry in every wrinkle of his brow as he met him eye to eye.

"Are you alright?" John Doe asked. His voice was softer than he'd imagined, tenor and perfectly suited to the tone of concern. Sherlock was mildly disappointed his stalker's military stance was the only thing intimidating about the shorter, comfortably dressed man.

Sherlock did not bother to hide his frown though he could tell from the stalker's expression that his reasoning was misinterpreted. "Aside from the obvious, I'm fine," he said, placing his palms to the grass to lift himself up though the stalker's hands pressed down on his shoulder to make him still. John Doe shifted his weight as he slid down closer to Sherlock's bent legs, rolling the cloth of his trousers up as he inspected the broken flesh. The canine's canines had penetrated the skin, blood slowly seeping out at a sluggish pace while the rest of the area burned red with irritation and the beginnings of bruising in the shape of the dog's jaw.

"Oh, god, I am _so sorry_. Alfie, he's-he's never bitten anyone before. Not even growled."

"Well, that's the end of that particular streak then," John Doe said. He frowned over the marks, his fingers tender in their inspection.

The dog owner looked pale, his forehead damp with stress-sweat under the short fringe of his blonde bangs. "Jesus, does he need to go to hospital?"

"I believe I said I am fine." Sherlock reiterated, not in the least impressed with the small crowd of people staring at them and the general disregard for his own opinion in the matter. This was not the sort of attention he cared to garner from anyone-least of all strangers. He was a stoic student, not a damsel in distress.

John Doe certainly wasn't paying attention; not to anything above Sherlock's knee at any rate. "No need for hospital. I'm a doctor. Doesn't look like he needs stitches but I'll be able to tell better once it's cleaned." The older man rolled Sherlock's trouser leg till it would hold itself up off the sanguine tears and slid back to Sherlock's side. "Think you can put weight on it?" he asked him.

Sherlock all but rolled his eyes. "Oh, are we addressing me now? Are you sure this isn't a topic you'd rather discuss amongst yourselves more?"

The stalker was undeterred by his tone, smiling slightly even as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's back, palm tight along his ribcage as he coerced him in bodily fashion to brace against his sturdy mass. It wasn't necessary as much as it was impossible to do much of anything but comply. With John Doe's sturdy grip and body supporting more than simply guiding Sherlock to rise, his own hand could only naturally come to rest across the other man's shoulders till they stood side by side in a parody of a single-arm embrace. Even standing, though, the stalker did not relinquish any of the weight he bore against himself as he waited, eyes cast down towards the bare leg that Sherlock had naturally tucked up into the air rather than force himself upon. He placed both heels to the ground and felt for the first time the stalker's hold on him subside to allow him to feel his full weight against the earth. It wasn't pleasant but it wasn't enough of an inconvenience to make subjecting himself to further public spectacle a worthwhile option. He took one step, felt the ankle protest, and on the other-while gravity worked against the lone pedestal of his bitten leg-felt the sudden flush of pain and brilliant awareness that he was going to fall down yet again. Or would have. John Doe had not been far enough removed from him to allow for such an embarrassing action. Instead he stumbled into his arms, his side pressed against the other man's chest once more as he welcomed him on instinct with his own arm tight around his shoulders.

"Lean on me. That's it," he said in a soft voice meant only for the two of them. "Let's get you back to your room, now, so I can take a better look at that leg."

Sherlock smirked as he pushed himself upright, amused by that simple turn of circumstance that idiots called fate. "Is that your usual chat-up line or is this improvisational?" he asked, enjoying the height he had over the man as that extra bit of superiority he could hold on to even while indebted to his sturdy presence.

John Doe seemed perplexed for a moment before his chin raised in understanding, his cheeks staining in a surprising shade of pink as he licked his lips before pursing them in an expression of guilt and conscious. "I promise, I really am a doctor," he offered in assurance.

"It's not your profession I'm questioning. More a remark in regards to your hobby."

He chuckled, shifting to stand astride as his hand fell to brace lower against Sherlock waist to give his patient the opportunity to lead. "What can I say? Never could turn away the opportunity to come to the rescue."

"If by rescue you mean being used as a human crutch, then your ambitions are even less laudable than your hobbies."

"Sorry, is there anything I can do to help?" the dog owner asked, his large beast panting with a rather dopey approximation of a grin on its box-like head. The dog had no fear of consequence but its owner looked appropriately terrified. Police reports, law suits, hefty fines for damages and court enforced euthanasia. He was certainly from money-widower father, never remarried, sole beneficiary-so the financial burden of fault certainly wasn't the issue. He either genuinely felt guilty for his dogs actions or singularly terrified his negligence would cost the creature its life. Perhaps both. It was lucky for him in that case that Sherlock could care less about an ill-behaved dog and more about the loss of mystery in his stalker companion who now had a profession and a personality.

Sherlock frowned, deciding against explaining the other student's true fault as he hobbled forward on his good leg with aid. "I think you'll grasp my meaning when I say you've done enough already."

John Doe indebted to be kinder than that to the sweating young man. "Mr. Trevor, was it?" he asked, looking between him and his dog. "I'll take care of things from here. You just see about getting a lead for that dog, alright?"

He nodded vigorously, knuckles white in their hold of Alfie's collar. "Right. Sorry. Really. _Very_ sorry," he said as he backed slowly away, giving them space even as he seemed too concerned to turn his back on either of them.

Sherlock had no time for the niceties of normal people. They had spectators so long as they stood on the green and there was nothing to be gained in being remembered as '_that guy who got bit by that dog_'. He ignored their exchange outside the obvious slip as he made as much haste as possible without looking too much like the weak link in a three-legged race. John Doe had no trouble in keeping up-army doctor was looking better and better. He certainly wasn't a civilian surgeon, though there still remained the matter of his present involvement. "Accomplice?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice flippant even as his eyes he knew would betray him with their sharp interest.

John Doe chuckled slightly, shaking his head. "You know, I'm beginning to think you have a rather low opinion of me."

"You knew his surname-he never spoke it and it wasn't written anywhere. You've been stalking me for a week, I was attacked, unprovoked, by a dog belonging to a man you obviously have some knowledge of, and now you're leading me back to my rooms where I'm sure you're aware no one else is at home at the moment."

"And you're letting me. Never did have much of a survival instinct, did you?" He shook his head again, as though enjoying some quiet insight that didn't bear sharing. The familiar way in which he addressed him was odd, though his observations weren't far from the truth. "I didn't arrange it," the stalker said. "Just... remembered the story is all. The story didn't include directions to your campus home, though, so steering's up to you."

Sherlock all but rolled his eyes. "Good lord, you're not one of those imbeciles who fancies himself a psychic, are you?"

"Nope. Well... okay, no, I don't, but pretty much everything I could ever say to you would make it sound like it."

"From the future then?" Sherlock asked, brow raised, intentionally going for the impossible just to lead him to disclose whatever he rationalized as improbable. He never expected the stranger to agree with him.

"Sort of," he said with a shrug and a smile. He didn't bother to explain what exactly '_sort of_' meant.

Sort of from the future? Not quite a psychic? Sherlock all but rolled his eyes as he groaned at the disaster that was the unveiling of his mystery stalker. "You were much more interesting when I knew nothing about you."

The stalker smiled, a soft chuckle hidden in his breath as he sighed against his shoulder. "My name's John. John Watson."

John. How utterly, predictably dull. "Of course it is," he sighed, and with every intention of making this as difficult and unrewarding as possible, Sherlock hobbled down the sidewalk with him towards the empty lodgings of his home away from home.


End file.
